Moving Daydoc
by Brian Cross
Summary: It's moving day for author Julian Chesney, but he appears a little ahead of time...


MOVING DAY

Julian Chesney heaved a sigh of relief. Writers suffered more than most from disruption and now after weeks of it, moving day had finally arrived. Now as he sped along the beach road in spring sunshine he could see the white pebbledash outline of his new home zooming large.

Shortly he'd seen the pantechnicon of TB removals parked in his driveway, together with his wife Jodie's car, who'd traveled ahead to supervise things.

He inched his head closer to the screen and frowned, the pantechnicon wasn't there. They'd wasted no time in getting the job done, fine as long as Jodie had supervised then correctly – but that was another thing, her MG was missing also.

Then again, that was okay, she'd probably popped to the village store for emergency provisions. Jodie after all, was a go-ahead woman, something he liked about her. He parked his car, strode towards the house, it looked like a white fortress against the blue sky, albeit in need of a little attention but he wasn't worried about that, he'd planned on making a few improvements and renovation was easy enough to arrange.

The frosted glass door was locked, of course it would be. Jodie had the keys which made him sigh – she might have been considerate enough to await his arrival. He made a mental note to get a separate bunch cut and then proceeded to the back, where the extensive lounge provided a panoramic view of the sea.

Then his breath caught in his throat, his mouth became as dry and rough as the pebbled beach; he was staring into a large void, nothing but bare floorboards and paintings he'd bought off the previous owner.

He raked his fingers through his hair, suddenly aware of the heat of the day. He'd had things to tie up at the other end so Jodie and the removal men had left a couple of hours earlier. What the hell had happened? Three flat miles of open beach road lay between Aldeburgh and their new Thorpeness home, if there had been problems he could hardly have missed them.

But no trace.

He grabbed his mobile phone from his pocket, fumbled and almost dropped it before his shaky fingers tapped out Jodie's number.

Her phone was switched off.

He cursed, swung round. To the few ramblers along the beach he must seem like a whirling dervish – he called the removal company – 'Ah, Mr. Chesney…' a voice crackled before the line went dead. He felt like screaming to high heaven – why couldn't they erect decent phone lines in this part of the world? He tried again to no avail.

The phone in the house – had it been connected? He couldn't remember. But he didn't need to break the glass to find out; he'd known a locksmith in days gone by, learned a few tricks he'd later applied to his novels. He ran to the side door and picked the lock in seconds.

He got that sinking feeling the moment he picked up the lounge phone – it was disconnected, but there was a separate line in the gallery upstairs – the room that was supposed to provide inspiration for his writing –

Again, it hadn't been connected.

Anxiety turned to despair, turned to anger. A downward spiral of emotions ending in deceit. Deceit was the name of this game, what else could it be? He'd no reason to believe she might deceive him, she was dynamic, involved in everything but –

His mind was becoming a waterlogged field of irrational thoughts, sucking him down, denying him any sense of direction. He ran down the stairs two at a time – she'd left him as high and dry as the ridge their new home was built on.

Thump, thump, miss-a-beat thump – he ran from the house, revved the engine high and raced it the couple of hundred yards to the one village phone box –

Out of order.

What sort of place was this.

He spun full circle, headed back towards Aldeburgh and the nearest working phone, not heeding the simple fact that he needed to be careful – he'd been having dizzy spells for some time and not getting round to having it sorted out, and this was becoming one of them. His head had started to turn like a wheel gathering momentum, but anti-clockwise it seemed. Despite his desperation to get to the bottom of his growing nightmare he was forced to concede, to pull off the road onto the grass until it passed.

The phone rang on the passenger seat where he'd dumped it. With glazed eyes he reached out and picked it up, but the reception was as useless as ever.

He swore, rested his head against the steering wheel, willing the merry-go-round to stop and then dozed, perhaps just for a minute of two but there was some relief in that, for his dizziness seemed to have eased.

He opened his eyes, narrow channels at first but they soon widened. There was something not quite right, something odd, but with his depleted senses he was having difficulty figuring it.

Before he could fathom what it was Julian saw two vehicles approaching. The first was a black MG convertible and even before it was fully in view his heart played the big bass drum. The woman with long blonde hair and reflective shades was unmistakable, and close behind her was a large pantechnicon.

She pulled across stopping just short of him, her tyres burning rubber, while the van continued a short way then pulled up.

Long legs emerged from the car as the woman sprang out, in just a few strides she was beside his door, yanking it open –

'Julian what the hell are you playing at? We've been loaded up for an hour waiting. What on earth possessed you to go driving –'then her angular jaw softened along with her voice, 'you haven't been having those funny turns, have you?'

Julian was trembling and instantly Jodie perceived that he had. 'Just a couple,' he acknowledged, 'what time is it?'

'Eleven am, why?'

He shook his head, 'No matter.' By the height of the sun he knew she was right, and yet it couldn't be, when he left their home it had turned three.

'Right, that's it,' Jodie placed her arm round his shoulder and helped him out, 'Leave your car where it is and we'll collect it later. Then first priority Jules, you can see the doctor. This just isn't you.'

Amidst the flood of relief in Julian Chesney's veins a question rose up in a black tide.

What was wrong with him.

He must have left home early morning but he'd no recollection of it, other than to him it had been afternoon. So, some kind of paranormal phenomena, or approaching insanity? As a novelist his mind was seldom in the same place as his body. So payback time, or something more sinister?

He shuddered as Jodie's arm tightened around him. 'Hey it's okay,' she said, 'we're going home.'


End file.
